The One to Survive
by lovablegeek
Summary: [PostRENT] It wasn't supposed to be like this, and he'd give anything not to be left with the memories. MarkRoger. [One shot]


**A/N:** This was written as yet another entry for speedrent—not one of the regular challenges, but rather for the Biggest Fucking Prize Contest. I came in second with this. Major angst and character death ahead.

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_"Close on Roger, who's been sitting on that window sill for days now, with a look on his face which I have become quite accustomed to."_

_"And what look is that?"_

The image projected on the bare wall on the opposite side of the loft was a little blurry—Roger never had been able to get the projector to fully focus, given that it belonged to _Mark_ and that was Mark's area of expertise—and as always the colors looked just slightly washed out, the audio scratchy, but that was nothing unusual, typical with everything Mark filmed, particularly the older reels. Still, the picture was clear enough to make out, and it didn't need to be perfectly in focus anyway. The images in Roger's mind were clearer anyway, though the more time went by, the more they faded… The voices remained perfect, though, and untouchable in his mind. No matter how scratchy and worn the audio from the film reels got, he could remember what Mark's voice sounded like with absolutely perfect recollection.

Roger didn't bother watching the image on the wall all that intently. He didn't particularly want to i see /i the film reels anyway, so rarely was Mark actually in front of the camera, just listen to them… He closed his eyes, even as the image of himself on the screen—a younger him, from before Mimi—turned to face the camera, somewhere between irritation and slight, almost hidden amusement.

_"The 'poor me' look. Stop with the self-pity. Come on, Roger, smile!"_

His voice was so bright and cheerful it hurt, but Roger could hear the echo of Mark's own pain, his worry for him… Clearer in memory than on the tape, but it always was. He didn't have to open his eyes to know that the image of himself in the film had just glared at the camera—no, not at the camera, but at Mark _behind_ the camera—for a second, before sticking up his middle finger and turning back to look out the window again, brooding silently. Roger opened his eyes again to see the camera lower a little, a minute drop and then it turned to point at the ground just before it went to black after Mark switched it off.

Roger let the projector run for a second, though the rest of the film on that reel was blank and he knew it. Staring at the blank wall, he sighed a little, digging his short nails into his palm, using the pain to ground himself, remind himself that he was in the present, here and now, not back there, years ago. That he couldn't go back to fix it, at least make an effort, like Mark had always been pushing him to do.

And he'd had to cut down Mark at every turn back then, hadn't he? He made too easy a target, never fought back… Roger remembered almost wishing back then that he would, that just once Mark would counter one of his biting comments with one of his own, that one of his interminable silences would be interrupted by some comment he'd _have _to respond to. It never did come, though, not from Mark. Roger was scared and grieving and Mark had known it and let it be…

He shouldn't have. Mark should have smacked some sense into him long ago, but he never had.

Finally, Roger grimaced and switched off the projector, carefully removing the reel of film and setting it aside. Mark never had used to let him run the projector, before—probably thought he'd break it or something. He always did worry about silly things like that. "I'm perfectly capable of running this thing without breaking it," Roger muttered under his breath.

He turned to look over the box sitting on the table beside the projector, full of Mark's old reels of film. The ones Roger watched the most often, especially on a day like today. A moment of hesitation, and after a second he stepped over to the table and slowly sifted through the box, pulling out one after another. He didn't need to slip any of them into the projector, though—he had watched each enough to recall exactly what each would show. He liked his memories better anyway. They had details the film didn't, couldn't record.

Almost every reel had labels on them in Mark's handwriting, except the few that Mark had never labeled for one reason or another. Those ones Roger had written labels for after a while, just his handwriting in a permanent marker on top of masking tape stuck on the side of the film reel. Makeshift, but it worked.

The one on top… one of the ones Roger had labeled. Roger could guess why Mark hadn't wanted to label that one—maybe he had watched it once or twice, when Roger was out of the house and wouldn't see, but it probably wasn't something he'd wanted Roger to know was recorded, and Roger only found it after Mark was gone. Roger's scrawled label simply said _Mark and me—New Year's._

They'd been alone that year. After Collins and Mimi died, and Maureen and Joanne had drifted away, and it was just them… They'd stayed home in the loft, drinking. Certainly not enough to get really drunk, as Roger remembered it, but enough. The strongest memories of that night were of Mark's lips on his, hesitant at first, his hands slowly sliding over Roger's chest, and of leaning in to Mark, returning the kiss. The camera had been left on the table, still running, and had captured that… It also captured the moment when Roger came to his senses and pulled back sharply, all but shoving Mark away from him and with a good deal more force than necessary. He hadn't been _that_ drunk, and now Roger regretted that he hadn't been. His awkward refusals—_"I can't do this. Not with you. I can't…"—_and his quick exit from the room. Mark's hurt look as he sat alone on the couch, looking after Roger but not daring to follow.

Roger set that reel of film down on the table, almost too hard. Even when he wasn't trying, he'd hurt him… The next one was hardly any better. One of Mark's labels, which meant that it was neat and meticulously dated, and underneath the date the words _Argument with Roger_. Not something Roger liked to remember, when it came to his behavior, but somehow seeing Mark's anger there, seeing him really lash out the way he almost never did… He couldn't keep the memory from leaping to the forefront of his mind.

It was the first time Mark had yelled at him, _really_ yelled. Mark had snapped at him before, gotten mad, but until that night he never actually yelled. But that night… The exact tone of his voice wasn't hard to recall. On the edge of breaking, almost falling apart, but not quite. He'd been filming, talking to Roger, Mark sitting on the couch and Roger on the window sill again. Something Roger had said struck a nerve, some sarcastic, off-handed comment, and suddenly Mark stood up, dropping the camera on the couch. It had landed on its side, and was still filming when Mark stepped into the frame and stalked to the window to stand directly in front of Roger, glaring at him. _"You fucking idiot, have you listened to a word I've said today? Hell, for the past month?"_

And Roger had glared up at him, his eyes angry and frighteningly empty… Roger hadn't known it at the time, but when he had watched the reel for the first time he couldn't help but be surprised that that look hadn't made Mark back down right then. The sound of his own voice wasn't so clear in Roger's memories, but he remembered what he'd said. _"I heard you, Mark. And you know what? None of it means a damn thing. I'm _dying_, god damn it! You'll thank me one day."_

Mark had curled one of his hands almost into a fists and lifted his hand as if considering hitting Roger, but he didn't. Instead, he'd growled, _"I'm not so afraid of losing something that I don't want to have it now! I love you." _Roger had looked out the window, avoiding Mark's eyes, and Mark's voice lowered, so soft that it almost wasn't audible when Roger played the film reel on the projector. _"And you love me, don't you?"_

Roger had looked up at Mark sharply and gotten to his feet abruptly, glowering down at Mark. _"Fuck, Mark, I'm not having this argument now. It doesn't matter whether I do or don't love you. I'm going to die, and you're going to be alone. I care about you too much to do that to you. The last thing I do isn't going to be to hand you a death sentence too."_

_"Roger…"_ And then Roger had shoved him aside, almost roughly enough to knock him down, and he'd walked to his room. Off camera, when you put it on the projector, you could hear a door slam. On camera, Mark sank down to sit on the window sill himself, right where Roger had been sitting, and pulled his knees up to his chest, folding his arms over his legs and burying his face in them out of sight. Roger hadn't known that at the time, had locked the door to his room and not come out for two days, but when he'd watched it on the projector, he was fairly certain Mark wasn't crying. Mark didn't cry where there was even the slightest chance people might see him. Still… yet another undeniable instance of Roger hurting him without meaning to. This time when he'd been trying to protect him.

"Never could do right by him," Roger muttered under his breath, setting down that reel of film and turning away from the box altogether. He wouldn't be watching anything else on the projector today, couldn't bring himself to. Anyway, the memories remained more vivid. And then there were those things Mark never had caught on film in the first place, and the only record of those things was in Roger's mind. He sank onto the couch, picking up Mark's old navy and white scarf from where it lay on the cushion beside him and wrapping it around his own neck, pressing his face into it.

The clearest memory today, though, on top of all of those from before, was the day he'd lost Mark… A year ago today. No film recording of that, just the aching memory and the empty space in his chest that reminded him it was real and not just a nightmare. No warning, no squeal of brakes or blare of a horn, just the loud crunch of metal as the other car crashed into theirs… The memory of the pain of the seatbelt biting into his chest—the seatbelt Mark had talked him into wearing, because Roger wouldn't have bothered had Mark not been worried about him—so hard it had left a bruise. Hadn't helped Mark, though.

They told Roger later at the hospital, though those memories were all a blur of white tiles and antiseptic, that there were broken ribs, a punctured lung, internal bleeding… What Roger remembered was the sound of Mark's pained breathing, a sort of gasping, halting, sobbing breathing, and the sick knowledge that he was going to lose him while all the while he'd been whispering assurances to him, promises that it would all turn out alright. Holding Mark's hand in the crushed car while they waited for the ambulance to come, but it was taking so long, and…

_"I love you, Mark. I've always loved you, you know that, please don't leave me. You can't die before me, you can't. You're supposed to be the one to stick around, you're supposed to stay, please, you can't…"_

But by the time he'd said that, he didn't think Mark had heard him.

Roger twined his fingers through the fringe of Mark's scarf, still pressing it to his face. Mark hadn't been supposed to leave him. Roger hadn't been supposed to go through this. It was supposed to be Mark here, left behind, not him, and why couldn't he _die_ already, damn it? Anything but being left here in this empty loft with Mark's reels of film and Mark's things and the memory of Mark's voice the only things to keep him company.


End file.
